Dormant
by drecklyn
Summary: They begged him to sleep, though after everything he had been through, rest he could not. He could not shut his eyes for every dream he dared to make was of her. 2x05 M/M


_Dormant_

* * *

Lingering silence was all that echoed.

Of course there were sounds going on around him, the fervent prayers of the other soldiers, the brief whispers of their loved ones, a somber grief ridden goodbye. Yet he could hear nothing but his own heart beat, rattling in the cage he called a chest. It was so loud that he was surprised the Germans hadn't mistaken it for echoing gunshots. A small whistle was clenched carefully between his lips as he gazed down at the small and dirty stop watch he held in his gloved hand, trying to keep his composure completely prioritized, though he slowly felt it edging away with every tick towards their fate.

Any blood shed from the men around him would be his fault. He would be the one to blow the whistle, to lead them all into an unknown oblivion full of screams, and bullets, and death. Feeling his knees buckle below him he gently slipped a hand into his pocket and felt around until his hands came to grasp upon Mary's token of luck. It had spared him thus far, there shouldn't be any reason it couldn't happen again.

Of course being a man of God, he did not believe in such things as luck and charms but at the stage that he was in, he was desperate for anything that would provide any source of comfort. Anything reminiscent of home, of a life he had left behind.

His eyes hastened back towards the watch as he saw the hand gently ticking towards the top. On twelve, he would blow. He wanted to close his eyes, to make some excuse to drag the time on longer, yet he knew that they had lingered in Amiens for far too long. It was time to take action.

And then, the hand fell upon what he had been waiting for the entire time, and with a small clench of his fist, he blew the whistle with all his might, starting up the ladder first as he hastily tucked the whistle into the small of his pocket, raising his gun with a fierce determination in his eyes.

He seemed to change on the battlefield, he was no longer Matthew, a small middle class lawyer who grew up in Manchester and still lived with his mother, he became Captain Crawley, survivor of the Somme, and leader of the battalion of men he seemed to be escorting into battle. All thoughts that had been plaguing him nearly moments before seemed to subside as he charged forward with an echoing cry that lingered with the others, focusing his attention on anything that appeared to be hostile.

His wrist yanked back as he fired his weapon, not waiting to see if his bullet had met its target. He never liked to watch, something that he had learned about himself during the two and a half years he had been in the bloody war.

Sensing that some of the men were hesitating towards the back, he cast a fervent glance over his shoulder, letting out a battle-ridden shout, "Forward!", As dust and dirt flooded his mouth, the ghost of a shell settling a ringing in his ears.

Noting that the explosion wasn't the last, he scampered to a crevasse in the dirt, William already beating him to it as they crouched in the mud, and dirt, and blood, whether from them or from others they couldn't be sure.

He nearly smiled when William remarked with a shout of his relief when the war would be over, though remembering his current situation, he face quickly gravened as the shouts of men tore at his ears. Suspecting a brief pause in the rein of bombs, Matthew beckoned carefully to retreat from the hole, William pushing eagerly in front of him as though he were some sort of guard.

Before he could gather his wits however, a swooshing sort of noise bellowed through the air, lingering with a brief whistle as he felt William shove him back into the whole with a shout, his body barreling backwards as dirt and shrapnel and mud covered his face.

And then he felt nothing.

* * *

"This fellow 'ere doesn' look too good. I s'gust we fill 'em before he comes ta',"

Blurred and mixed voices surrounded his ears as Matthew began to gently come to, quite aware of the shuffling of bodies around him. Through his heavy eyelids he could make out shadows of many people gathered over him, ridding him of his uniform and one firmly grasped his bare arm, taking a large needle and injecting it into his skin, yet he felt nothing but a severe numbing. He tried decadently to open his eyes, but they were so heavy as though replaced by a ton of bricks.

There was a slight vibration beneath his body though he was far too disoriented to muster what it could be.

However his ears were as sharp as ever, though after hearing what he did he wished they were as useless as his eyes. Sharp moans and cries echoed around whatever structure he was in, increasing in volume as the structure gave another violent vibration. He tried to call out, to address someone's attention, to ask where he was, though his voice did not work as he was overwhelmed by a heavy sense of exhaustion, giving into his heavy dose of morphine as the truck barreled him through the French countryside.

He was unknowingly going home.

* * *

Mary.

She lingered over him in the summer breeze, her soft voice calling his name, echoing through his entire body as she cast him an enticing smile, as though she were in some sort of mystical trance. He grasped out, reached for her, though she took a step away with the same fluctuant smile, whispering his name upon her lips.

He leapt for her this time, trying to grasp his hands through her slender waste, though his fingers drifted right through her, as though she were some sort of gathering mist. Letting out a cry of frustration, he reached again, only to find that every action he made towards her made her fade and deteriorate, her soft complexion turning rigid and barren, eyes lidding over until they were not eyes at all but empty sockets. She began to shatter into dust, and now she screamed his name, beckoning desperately to her, and he screamed with her, sobbing and trying to gather the dust she shed though it crumbled and faded in his bloodied hands. And bodies littered the floor along with Mary's deteriorated one, and William remarked on how he was glad that everyone was dead.

And Matthew screamed for her now, feeling pain rise to his chest as his conscious self began to yelp along with his subconscious one.

And another dose of morphine was given.

He was at Downton next, and the warm grass was spread far below his bare body as he lay on the soft ground under a tree. Their tree. The sky was so far blue that it cast a reflection of the world below it, no clouds gracing the sky on such a beauteous day. And then she came.

He had not cried for her to come, not begged like he had before. It was merely an aurora that he were, as though he were calling her all along, whether he voiced it or not. She leaned over him, non fussed about his nakedness before her, and she curled up to his chest, the distant sounds of bombs and cries not reaching their tiny world consisting of souly themselves.

Yet as he gazed down at her he found her sobbing tears of blood and salt, the substance drifting over his body and flooding the grass until they were both drowning in it, trying to swim though it was so thick that it seemed to both suck them into the abyss.

And she shouted, "Swim Matthew!" Yet he could not move his legs as he slowly drifted down into oblivion, crumbling in a heap at the bottom.

Moans of her name filled the hospital that night.

She lead him, tugging upon his hand with a reassuring smile as she pulled him down a hill made of glass, shattering beneath their feet, causing their skin to break and blood to be shed, yet there was no pain, only sharp jolts of ecstasy as though holding hands was the most intimate act they could acomplish. They collapsed in a heap at the bottom of the shattering mountain, tightening their bodies closely to each other, every touch whisking away the mud and blood that littered their bodies.

His was the filthiest, yet she didn't seem to mind as her soft touches lingered upon the skin that was damaged the most, her long and loose hair rising in seeming static with every jolt of her fingers. And then their lips met, crashing together in a wave that was greater than the very world shattering beneath their feet, hearts pounding and eyes fluttering as it was deepened into something more passionate. Yet as their kiss spiraled into something utterly joyous, Matthew felt a sharp tingling in the back of his throat, and he coughed, sending blood to spew through both of their mouths. She jerked away, eyes alert as she spat out the substance, yet with a sharp jolt, she too began to cough blood, and they both hunched over the glassy floor beneath them, spilling red to the clear panes.

And she glared at him, with such a lingering hate that he never wanted to touch her, never wanted to indulge in such an experience again for no matter what they did to prevent it, nothing good could become of it. And at the moment, his was fully conscious, aware of his fantasy, aware of his delight and torture. And seventeen words came back to haunt him.

_You've shown me I've been living in a dream. And it's time to return to real life. _

* * *

_AN: I've long wanted to do something like this, matching the harshness of reality with the even harsher fantasies of the subconscious. I hope I've done the idea justice, thank you for taking the time to read._


End file.
